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Thomas Halloran – Ⅴ

Little Blue in Steele Creek 





When it sees me, it steps around

an aimlessly paddling mallard

in its way, then vaults

ten more yards upstream.


The bird waits,

hair-trigger neck cocked.

It gets harder to see

as air falls heron-blue


and then by dark,

fish-full or giving up,

it suddenly cranks its lank wings high,

one at a time as if


for the first time ever in history,

then abruptly

all the several motions change

to its sturdy, flawless lift home.